Page 9 of Pucking Forbidden

I study her blatantly now. “You’re moving slower.”

She snorts. “That’s called getting older. You’ll understand one day.”

“It’s more than that, isn’t it?” She’s usually not so dismissive when I have concerns about her.

She waves me off like I’m being dramatic. “I’m fine. Eat your food.”

My jaw tightens, and my stomach twists. If there’s something wrong, I wish she’d just tell me so I can help. I’m prepared to do just about anything I can for this woman. If she weren’t so stubborn, I’d have already bought her a new house, but she insisted she wanted to stay here in the house her husband bought. He died before they had any children, and she never remarried.

Maybe that’s why she was so willing to take care of me when I was a kid. She had all this motherly love and instinct living inside her, and nowhere to focus it until the bruised and battered neighbor boy needed a place to escape to.

If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have the life I have right now. I owe her everything.

“Grams,” I say again, quieter this time. She hates when I call her Mrs. Clay, and she is like a grandma to me. Still, I can’t help but refer to her as Mrs. Clay in my head and when I’m not with her…some fucked up boundary I can’t make myself cross.

“I said I’m fine, Julian.” Her voice is firmer, making it clear she’s not giving up anything.

I clench my jaw, but don’t say another word. I sit there, in the only place that’s ever really felt like home, and I realize something I haven’t let myself think about before.

She won’t always be here.

The thought hits hard, and I have to look away, focusing on the plate in front of me despite the fact that I’m not hungry anymore.

“Eat,” she insists, softer now, like she knows exactly where my head just went. “You didn’t come all this way to sit there and mope.”

I huff out a quiet breath, picking up my fork again.

“Yes, ma’am.”

There are so many things around the house that need attention; I spend the next day making my way through my mental list.

A few cabinet handles are loose, so I grab a screwdriver from the junk drawer and tighten them. I fix the dripping faucet in the half-bath on the first floor of the house. I fill in the crack in the laminate on the kitchen floor. Then I make my way out onto the porch to tackle the creaking third step.

As I’m finishing up, testing the next board I put in, I hear the front door open.

“Julian.”

I glance up.

Mrs. Clay is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

“It’s your birthday,” she says. “Why are you out here working like I put you on payroll?”

I shrug, tightening the last screw into place. “It’s not work.”

She snorts. “Looks like work.”

I test the step again. Solid now. “Just fixing things.”

“I didn’t ask you to fix anything.”

Chuckling, I straighten and stretch my arms over my head. “I know.”

She narrows her eyes. “Then stop.”

I shake my head, wiping my hands on a rag. “You know how I like knowing things are taken care of around here.”

That’s the simplest way to explain it, but it’s not the whole truth. I need to feel like I’m doing something for her. Making her life better, even if it’s just a little bit. A few minor house repairs aren’t a big deal. I did stuff like this for her all the time when I was in high school.